The Whirligig of Time

by Wayland Wells Williams

Gradually the sudden illumination of that thought faded in the evergrowing shadow of sleep. Now only vague wisps of ideas floated through her mind; even those were but pale reflections of that one truth; Aunt Cecilia was mistaken.... Aunt Cecilia was wrong.... It was all right about Tommy.... Tommy was all right.... Aunt Cecilia ... was wrong....

Psychologists tell us that ideas make most impression on the mind when they are introduced into it during that indefinite period between sleeping and waking; they then become incorporated directly with our subconscious selves without having to pass through the usual tortuous channels of consciousness and reason. And the sub-consciousness, as every one knows, is a most intimate and important place; once an idea is firmly grounded there it has become substantially a part of our being, so far as we can tell from our incomplete knowledge of our own ideal existence. We are not sure that a single introduction of this sort can give an idea a good social standing in the realm of sub-consciousness; probably not. But it can help; it can give it at least a nodding acquaintance there. Certain it is, at any rate, that when Beatrice awoke next morning it was with a mind at least somewhat more willing than previously to take for granted, as part of the natural order of things, the fact of the inherent wrongness of Aunt Cecilia and its corollary, the innate rightness of Tommy. (Possibly this corollary would not have appeared so inevitable if the matter had all been threshed out in reason; they are rather lax about logic and such things in sub-consciousness, making a good introduction the one criterion of acceptance.) With the net material result that Beatrice was less inclined than ever to be nervous about Aunt Cecilia and also less inclined than ever to be nervous about Tommy.

The day began in an atmosphere of not unpleasant indolence. Breakfast was late and was followed by the best cigarette of the day on deck—Beatrice's smoking was the secret admiration and envy of all the female half of the younger section. A cool breeze ruffled the harbor and gathered in a flock of clouds from the Sound that left only just enough sunlight to bring out the brilliant colors of the little flags all the yachts had strung up between their mastheads and down again to bowsprit and stern. It was rather pleasant to sit and watch these and other things; the continual small traffic of the harbor, the occasional arrivals of more slim white yachts.

Presently Harry and Madge and Beatrice and Tommy and one or two others made a short excursion to the shore, for no other apparent reason than to join the procession of smartly dressed people that for one day in the year convert the quiet town of New London into one of the gayest-looking places on earth. Tommy was much in evidence here, fairly crowing with delight over each new thing that pleased him. It was all Harry could do to keep him from swathing himself in blue; Tommy had become an enthusiastic Yalensian. He had spent a week-end with Harry in New Haven during the spring; he had driven with Aunt Selina in the victoria, he had been shown the university and had met a number of pretty gells and rippin' fellahs; what business was it of Wiggers if he wanted to wave a blue flag? Wiggers ought to feel jolly complimented, instead of makin' a row!

"You'd say just the same about Harvard, if you went there—the people are just as nice," said Harry. "Besides, Harvard will probably win. You may buy us each a blue feather, if you like, and call it square at that."

Beatrice smiled, but she thought Harry a little hard.

"Never mind, Tommy," said she; "you can sit by me at the race this afternoon and we'll both scream our lungs out, if we want."

That was substantially what happened. Luncheon on the yacht—an enormous "standing" affair, with lots of extra people—was followed by a general exodus to the observation trains. Tommy had never seen an observation train before and was full of curiosity. They didn't have them at Henley. It was all jolly different from Henley, wasn't it, though? As they walked through the railroad yards to their car he was inclined to think it wasn't as good fun as Henley. One missed the punts, and all that. Once seated in the car, however, with an unobstructed view of the river, it was a little better, and by the time the crews had rowed up to the starting-point he had almost come round to the American point of view. It might not be so jolly as Henley, quite, but Jove! one could see!

Tommy sat on Beatrice's left; on her right was Mr. MacGrath and beyond him again was Aunt Cecilia. The others were scattered through the train in similar mixed groups. Beatrice thought it a good idea to split up that way.... She began to have an idea she was going to enjoy this race.

So she did, too, more than she had enjoyed anything in—oh, months! She couldn't remember much about it afterward, though she did remember who won, which is more than we do. She had a recollection, to begin with, of Tommy joining in lustily in every Yale cheer and of Mr. MacGrath trying not to thump Aunt Cecilia on the back at an important moment and thumping herself instead. He apologized very nicely. Presently Tommy committed the same offense against her and neglected to apologize entirely, but she didn't mind in the least. (That was the sort of race it was.) Perhaps there lurked in the back of her brain a certain sense of joy in the omission.... She herself became infected with Tommy-mania before long.